Wisteria

Wisteria

is such a pretty word.
A whisper of inky twilight,
a crescent of a dream.
It sounds like a rabbit
hiding in the underbrush.
It sounds like Sylvia Plath
and her instrumental words.
It sounds like a pair
of long white hands brushing,
just barely and too, too gently,
on a white starched shirt.

It's not enough this word.
It slips you a glimmer of
gossamer evenings and city lights,
reflecting on tranquil waters,
and then...
just as the climax comes,
it fades away, as beautifully
as is had appeared
and leaves you with the
gentle thud of memories.

Wisteria is a woman.
The type of woman who
sneaks away before dawn
has awoken, while the night
is still crazy with neons.





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